


A Winter's Night

by Astrageth



Category: Auld England Series - Jimち ASMR | JimChi ASMR
Genre: ASMR, Based off Jimち ASMR | JimChi ASMR video 'Rescued by a Viking', Battle, Blackeye is a badass (and a big softy), Caretaking, Definitely a bit anachronistic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gentleness, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Little Crow gets a bit of backstory, Little Crow is gender neutral, Nebulously Historical, No Sex, Other, Rescued by a Viking, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Strangers to Friends to Partners, Tenderness, Tending Wounds, The first half of this fic is based on the video 2nd half is my take on what happens after!, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29570733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrageth/pseuds/Astrageth
Summary: On a winter's night a village north of the wall is attacked by vicious Saxons, one survivor is cornered by three of those soldiers but before they can do more than threaten a painted warrior appears from out of the snow, killing the Saxons he offers a hand of friendship to the wounded person before him, nicknaming them 'Little Crow' and promises to take them somewhere safe...
Relationships: John Blackeye/Little Crow
Kudos: 1





	A Winter's Night

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is inspired by the first video ‘Rescued by a Viking’ in Jimち ASMR video series ‘Auld England’. I got inspired and started writing this before the other two videos in the series were posted so please take this as an AU of that series! The first half of this fic is essentially a retelling of the video from both characters perspectives, John the Blackeye and Little Crow who is the listener’s character in the video (the dialogue in this section is lifted from the video). The second half of this fic is my take on what happens when the video ends. I should note that in this fic I’ve given Little Crow more backstory and agency because I can and I am not having to film this in a solo operation! (Also, don't look at the historical elements of this fic, it is deliberately vague and anachronistic!)
> 
> Little Crow in the video is gender neutral and so I have written this story with that in mind, if I've made any mistakes please let me know!
> 
> All credit to Jimち ASMR for the characters here, I’ve put my own spin on Little Crow’s specifics but that’s it!

They stood in aftermath of carnage, the soldier’s blood still steaming in the snow where it pooled beneath them.

The wind whipped the strands of dark hair about them as the cold bit into their flesh.

Gone.

They were all gone.

Their village destroyed and they had been surely about to join them, though most likely not swiftly if those curling fingers of the Saxon leader were anything to judge.

And now nothing.

Except the warrior with the painted face.

The warrior who stood so sure and strong, killing as easily as breathing, staring at them with eyes that seemed to understand.

“Come with me Little Crow”

What else were they to do?

Their body ached from the attack on their village, even now they could feel the sluggish seep of blood mark their skin, wounds borne of desperation and escape and failure.

They’d not managed to save a single soul.

Not even themselves.

The wind grew louder in their ears as in a daze they took the proffered hand, louder as their steps grew quieter and the world darker.

They only realised they was falling as the last of their thoughts fled.

**

John the Blackeye caught them more out of reflex than anything else, the name that fell easily from his lips suited them he decided. They weighed little more than a child, light as a feather. A little crow indeed.

He was sorry to have missed the attack on the village, it was far beyond the bounds of his usual patrol, but still, it felt like another failure to be added to his shoulders. But there was this one survivor, the other soldiers he’d killed on his way towards the village, the women and children that were being pursued would survive, there was a stronghold not too much further east, he’d made sure they knew where to go before he continued his hunt for any others.

And there they were, surrounded, wounded and terrified.

The stick in their white-knuckled hands had obviously seen some use but it would do little to save them from three trained fighters.

He on the other hand, well Thor and Odin watched and guided both his path and his arm.

It was little work to finish them, their minds already clouding with lust it was easy to take them off guard.

He was only mildly disconcerted to see the fear had not faded from their eyes when they gazed on him then again, he was a stranger, more than capable of killing. Of course they would fear him.

But they would freeze if he left them and the others were too far on their path to refuge to catch up to.

And now he had them in his arms, delicate and pale, too pale, too cold.

No, he would take them to his home. There was food, warmth and a chance to heal.

He would have to move swiftly.

Carefully he shucked his cloak, wrapping their small unconscious form in it to protect against the ravages of the snow before raising their body to rest over his shoulder.

It was the best he could do.

John Blackeye made for home.

**

The journey home was uneventful thankfully, his home as he had left it, fire easy to stoke back up to a welcoming roar. He was glad he’d hunted yesterday, the elk meat he’d roasted was still good, the rest cured for the deeper winter with some left smoking in the rafters.

Gently he eased the prone figure from his shoulder, their raven hair falling long and loose as he laid them carefully on to his bed. It worried him to see the colour of their skin, almost as white as the snow outside and bones that felt far too cold and fragile in his grip.

Warmth first, then food.

He laid another blanket over them, still wrapped in his cloak as they were he hoped it would bring them to wakefulness in its own time. He sat back with a piece of elk having banked the fire, content to sit and wait and watch and listen the slow breathing filling the air.

**

The first thing they were conscious of was warmth, warmth and comfort before the smell of a hearth, of skins and wool slowly filtered through their mind. It was only when realised they also had the scent of a man in their nose did their eyes open.

It was the painted warrior.

He sat close to them, eating a joint of meat hungrily.

They tried not to move, fear flooding them. It was clear he’d brought them to his home, probably to finish what the soldiers had intended to start. They tried to gauge him, watching as he replaced the meat, reaching instead for a drink. He must be ravenous after killing those three, he was probably preparing for whatever he intended to do to them.

They knew who he was, he was a Norseman. They’d heard the tales, of their violence, of their pillaging. But never had they thought to see one in person, their village was too far from the seas and great rivers his people, so the stories went, preferred. Though they had heard of a place, far to the north that was supposedly protected by other gods. Gods that did not carry the names they knew. Something had happened in years past and the stories became whispers of warning.

But what did it matter? Saxon or Norse, they would still die, defiled no doubt.

They tried to spy anything that could be a weapon, they refused to die without a fight, wishing more than ever the whispers about them were true.

But everything hurt so much, how could a body be both ice and fire? It wasn’t like anything they’d felt or treated before.

The warrior turned, his eye catching theirs.

They forgot to breathe.

He grunted in what could have been pleasure, “Ah Little Crow, you are awake. Good.”

They were already moving, trying painfully to slowly scramble away from the danger.

What they weren’t expecting was him to offer them food or drink.

They refused, they didn’t want to accept anything from him, if they did he might see it as acquiescence which was the last thing they intended to give. 

It gave them chance to catch up with what he’d called them, Little Crow? They hadn’t dreamt that then. That was real. At least he didn’t have their true name, that’s what mattered. They might not know much about the other world but their Grandmother taught them the important rules.

“Never share a name child, there’s terrible power in a name, a name is a living thing, it is your gift to another and one that can be turned against you by a stranger.”

‘Little Crow’ suited for now. They liked crows, they were clever and full of secrets. They shared their colours with them too, hair and eyes that marked them as other to their people.

He didn’t try to stop them moving away though, he seemed instead, concerned? Probably he wanted them to be at some strength to endure what was coming. They’d heard some men liked to make a sport of it.

Fear had stolen their voice but a small question, far smaller than they wanted to sound asked his name. Desperate for any kind of power they could gather.

Blackeye? That only left them more confused. But he could see? He was looking at them, he’d looked at the Britons. Right before he killed them all.

Then he was talking about helping them heal but they didn’t see any salves or drying herbs. They knew their way around the healing arts more than well enough and knew what to look for.

Then he handed them a ring.

A little thing, gold and inscribed with markings they couldn’t read.

He stared at them like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, could it bring them harm? All they could focus on was his hands, the size of them, scarred and battle-worn. Strong hands. Dangerous hands.

Yet held the ring out to them so delicately.

Nervously they put it on, not wishing to spurn what might be good will, not with his hands so close. Food was one thing. But a gift of healing?

They hurt too much and had none of their salves or herbs to mend themselves.

They tried not to show the surprise on their face when they felt something flow from the ring and into them, it felt like water in sunlight, bringing cleansing and healing.

He’d meant what he said.

They could feel themself mending.

A seed of hope formed in their heart. Maybe, just maybe they could trust some of his words.

They focused back on him, he was speaking again, the words were strange, heavily accented to their ears, like he wasn’t used to their language. He probably wasn’t, they knew nothing of Norse after all. But they thought they understood the words ‘warrior’ and ‘berserker.’

They did not sit easily with them.

Then grandfather. That caught their attention. They missed their own grandmother very much still. He spoke of seeing, seeing the other world, what had been and what had yet to come to pass. That they understood. He spoke of Gods they did not know and paths unwalked in shadows.

They didn’t like how much they wanted to believe his words.

He changed the subject all of a sudden,

“Is my cloak uncomfortable?”

The terror that shot through their heart at those words stopped them cold.

All creeping peace fled.

This was it. They felt their throat constrict and their eyes widen so even if they wanted to they had no voice to scream.

**

He would be lying if he said their fear didn’t grieve him as they sat backed up against the wall, wide dark eyes flitting from him and his hands to the door the far side of the fire.

In the last moment, as his words left his lips, that had grown to the terror of a cornered animal.

A realisation dawned.

He might know his intentions but they did not.

“Fear not little crow, I have no intention of making you my blanket tonight”

It was almost magical the transformation that occurred.

They relaxed, the iron grip on his cloak loosened and their breathing slowed. They ducked their head in acknowledgement and thanks.

The idea of forcing a person, and especially one such as this, it sat ill with him. There could be no pleasure in what was not shared.

He explained out loud that no, they was to heal and then would be free to make their way in the world come the morning if the ring had restored their health fully. Even though he did not like the idea of a creature so small to be in the wilds unprotected. An idea began to form as he reached for his grandfather’s runes.

He suggested it as a comfort to them but truthfully he wanted to know what the Gods had planned for one so small yet striking.

He wanted to assure them, to explain that he meant them no harm, he talked about the spiritually of the Norse, of how kindness was so important to those they cared for. He didn’t think they believed him but it hoped it was a seed sown in winter that would bloom in spring.

He found himself sharing more of his heart and some of the heaviness he carried.

It was easy to talk to one like them, with eyes that seemed to welcome secrets.

It became easier as the fear slowly melted like snow in summer.

He even told them of his love for birdsong, the things he’d heard and the joy he’d taken from it.

**

He wasn’t going to hurt them, he wasn’t going to force them. He really did just mean to be kind.

They found the breath they’d been holding slowly escape them.

They was safe.

Truly safe.

They could weep.

They swallowed and nodded a thanks, not trusting themself to speak.

Instead they was focused on his runes, suddenly interested in something else to avert their tears of relief.

And the story he wove for them was surprisingly accurate. He might not call upon their Gods but it was powerful all the same.

They had always felt protected before today, in the village they had been raised by Their Grandmother, Their parents long since walked into the beyond. Their Grandmother had made her last journey in the previous summer but she had gone with love and the village had come together to support them now they were a healer in their own right, taking over the mantle of herb keeper from their guardian. Young and still finding their way but wise at least in the ways of plants and medicines. The rest was supposed to come in time.

If it had been Thor who had had a hand in their life up to now they should show gratitude and make an offering.

They weren’t noble, not in the way of the lords of the south but they’d always been told they had a gift, a gift for healing, for using their hands to create. Healing, cooking or growing whatever they made was well done, the skills coming naturally to them. They’d always felt they had been blessed by the Gods and was grateful.

It felt like a confirmation.

They listened more closely.

The smile quirked at their lips unbidden, at his words, the way he made light mention of himself as a feature in the rune of today. He was handsome in his way, beneath the fearsome paint were eyes that had kindness dwelling within and he was most certainly a warrior. That they had met today, that he had found them when he’d had felt more like fate than chance.

They hoped the rune for tomorrow was right.

Their breath caught at the words of their future. They searched his face for any sign of falsehood but he seemed as sincere as always.

They had no partner. They remained alone, having not yet shared themselves with another, no one in the village interested them beyond friendship and they had been protected there as well, as apprentice to the herb keeper they could not be approached and as herb keeper they could choose rather than be chosen.

Their knowledge was in the here and now, how to help and heal.

Spirits and the matters of the other world were beyond their knowledge as they had cultivated it.

Maybe they could learn more from him.

Then he began to speak of presents for a guest, that it was the way of his people to gift those welcomed into the home.

A beautiful shell, a gift from the sea that they had yet to visit. They’d heard of them creatures like snails that lived in the water but never thought it would be so lovely.

He measured their neck for a pendant strand in that same reassuring way and marked the shell with more protective runes.

When he placed the finished gift over their head there was a new expression that shone in the firelight.

Wonder.

It was a look they had seen before, but never directed at them. There was a softness hovering on the edge of worship.

“Beautiful”

No one had ever called them that before. They were sharp and dark, Seelie-touched so the whispers had been swirling since birth, child of midnight. They had been respected in their village, respected and liked even but not considered as anything other than their role, apprentice, then, herb keeper in their own right, separated, apart. It wasn’t something they’d considered. It was just how things were. They had been pleased and daunted to serve their people, determined to do their best.

A sob caught in their throat.

Their people.

All gone.

They’d failed them.

There must have been something they could have done.

To distract themself they raised their hand to touch the shell as they raised Their eyes to meet his. Eyes that they was beginning to believe were honest in their kindness. It wasn’t what they’d expected when they’d been cornered in the snow, the stench of the death of village still clawing at their senses.

He recovered himself, seeming embarrassed at his admission.

Asking them quickly if the fire was warm enough which it was.

A second question chased the first, “Is your heart warm enough?”

Oh, oh now that was a question.

No, they realised with a hollow start. No it wasn’t. But they had no idea what to do about it. Well, they may but the words would not pass their lips.

When he asked them of what comfort he could bring they very nearly replied “hold me, let me feel safe.” But the words would not come.

Instead of pressing them he began to speak of flyting, a word battle, skills of the tongue to tell better and stronger rhythms of rhymes.

They found they wanted to hear him flyte with his own people to hear it properly rather than him speak slowly and simply for them.

Then he began to sing.

He sang of water and flame. Of how they were different yet alike.

He was singing of them and their heart warmed.

Oh how they would write a song of him, of his strength and skill but most of all, like his people would value. His kindness.

They was trying to think of words he might know, things they could sing that he’d understand rather than sing a song truly of their people, it hurt too much to think of them right now, when he presented them with what his hands had been occupied with as he sang.

A little doll, wound of string.

He explained it was something of him, a charm for protection. 

They found themself smiling, he had made them a talisman. Truly a great gift. They wondered at his generosity. They was stranger to him yet he had given them his name, his magic and now a part of himself for their aid. 

And he had asked for nothing. 

They accepted the gift gladly, he was a fearsome warrior brave and sure in battle and they welcomed any extra protection granted, their village was lost and they was alone now. They would have to think on where they could head and what path might they walk in the coming days and months. They would need to learn to defend themself better though, they could wield a knife to butcher a carcass and swing a cudgel well enough if they had to but to have real skill? That would take practice and instruction. Maybe he would teach them. 

They was so lost in their thoughts, admiring his handiwork and considering their future they missed his look turn awkward, "it's stupid, "

Immediately they refocused on him, he’d turned away in self-recrimination. They wanted to interrupt, to tell him no, it wasn’t stupid at all but he pressed on, trying to cover his embarrassment.

“I would like you to stay Little Crow, with me, at least until you are healed, I know I said you could make your way in the morning but I would like it if you stayed a little longer.” 

They felt their heart fill a little at his words.

“I could catch something else if you don’t like Elk, maybe fox or a bird, something that you like—”

The unmistakable sound of sword being unsheathed. They felt their breath catch as their blood froze. 

They had found them. 

Blackeye had also caught the sound, he looked resigned, “Englander.” He sighed.

He explained how to use an axe, how to hold it like they’d hold their heart.

Tears pricked their eyes. They tried to form the words, “don’t go, please, please don’t leave.”

He seemed to know anyway, “I will go out and fight them, I will return to you Little Crow, I will not let you go.”

With that he gave them a half smile then, clutching his long axe, headed towards the door.

**

The runes had told him lot more than he’d been expecting, maybe he wasn’t quite so black of eye.

The past and present runes all fit with what he knew to have happened.

But the future?

By Odin’s blessing he hoped that would come to pass.

Never had he encountered a creature like them, both dark as the night and light as the moon. Beautiful.

He had to gift them with something, it was only right.

Technically the gifts were for friends rather than guests that passed through but he hoped they would consider him a friend at least.

He selected the shell because it reminded him of their smooth skin, perfect in its shape.

He carved the protection runes into it out of reflex, his hands wanting them safe even before he thought about it.

“Beautiful”

The word slipped out before he could catch it.

It was foolish. Of course it was foolish and he was only going to scare them.

But he wanted to give them a gift.

He wanted them to know he was a friend, that he meant them no harm, the exact opposite in fact.

He’d begun to flyte as a way to distract from his admission.

He liked flyting, as a boy he’d listened in awe as the adults around him met in a battle of words, wits were just as vital in verbal sparring as with an axe. He’d been quite good when in practice but it had been a long time without warmth of his people around him and his skills had dulled, untended and tarnished.

He was still pleased he’d managed to explain it to them, he was keeping his words simple, he knew enough of the local dialects to understand the basics of Their Pictish words, same as those of Englanders and the Welsh with their land of beautiful song.

But he missed speaking his own tongue.

Maybe he could teach them.

If they wanted to learn.

He wasn’t sure why he began to sing, maybe it was because he was captivated by the fire that danced in their dark gaze. A gaze that had softened since he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to hurt them. They were less wild and corned animal and now more winter condensed before him, the night and the moon, frost and snow.

But their eyes were ablaze, the depths of a deep raging fire burned in them as they watched him.

He knew that look, his little crow surely had talons of their own.

That was a pleasing thought. They was so small, having a fire in your core was a way to survive.

They had brightened up his evening too.

Maybe that was why the song slipped from his lips.

It was not his best work, not by long way, but it was passable. And it was true. That was what mattered.

His only thought as his hands worked was that he wanted to give them as much protection as he could, in person and toy. It was only a simple thing, but its intentions were as sure as the path of a river. He wanted to be with them to keep them safe. They were so slight. It made his heart ache at the thought of them being faced with another situation like he’d found them in.

The toy of himself, he realised, was more for his own peace of mind, he filled it with as many blessings as he could anyway.

“I would like you to stay with me a little longer.”

The words escaped before he could catch them and pull them back, flowing over his lips.

“If you don’t like Elk I could catch something else like fox or a bird.”

He heard the swords as he saw his Little Crow recoil in fear.

That would not do.

They would regret the day they tracked John the Blackeye and his Little Crow.

He would face them and kill them then continue with the night has he’d planned.

Still, he’d best show them how to protect themself though, just in case. It was arrogant to think he was as strong as Thor.

He liked the way the fear had melted into determination on their small, pointed face.

He promised he’d return, he meant what he’d said. He would not let them go. Would not allow them to face danger alone. At least, not readily. 

With a deep breath, Gunnuld held familiar and sure in his hands he stepped out into the snow.

**

They crept towards the entrance, they could hear that there was more than one Briton out there.

Blackeye was more than capable, they’d seen him kill three of them without blinking. He would be fine, of course he would. But they was still going to stay close, they wasn’t helpless, they’d fought back at least one grasping soldier before Blackeye came. They might be small but they were strong. They had helped women bring life into the world, they had dressed wounds and cleared fields. They were no delicate flower.

The axe felt good in their hands, heavy, sure, and pressing that little doll and the knife hilt tighter into their palms.

They were just on watch, just there to make sure no bastard got past him. They weren’t just going to sit there and be a victim. No, he’d armed them and they was going to use it.

Plus, they carried the marks of his Gods. That had to count for something.

A pained grunt came from the other side of door.

A grunt they recognised.

NO.

They was through the door before their mind had caught up to their instincts, there was only one Briton left, the rest dead on the snow but the last had caught Blackeye in the side. The Viking had fallen to his knees, head bowed as he registered the pain, looking up to witness the gloating sword blow raining down from above, his own hands moving too slowly to counter.

Their axe was moving almost by itself.

There was a rage in them, Blackeye was right, they were fire and they burned. How dare these Briton’s murder their people, track them down like animals and then try to slay the man who saved them, their friend.

Their axe hit the sword blade with everything they had, the strike sure, knocking it off course. Even as the force of blow shook through their arms they were already moving, hand clasping the hilt of the knife he’d whittled their shell with they drove it through the unprotected throat of the startled Briton.

Blood poured from his wound, coating their arm with crimson gore as he tried to gasp, scarlet bubbles escaping his lips. The dying man fell backwards, hands clutching vainly, crashing heavily into snow that was rapidly turning red.

“No more. No more from you. He is mine.” They spat

“Little Crow?”

They whirled around to face him, looking more Morrigan than fledgling. Battle burning, painted in victory, eyes blazing in triumph, axe and doll in one hand, dripping knife in the other. A feral grin spread across their face.

They had won, the Briton was dead. Hopefully the last for a while. Their village, or a least a tiny part of it, avenged. 

**

Blackeye took in the sight, hardly believing his Little Crow had become a harbinger before his very eyes.

He’d never seen anything more radiant.

His face split into a beaming smile before the pain truly caught up with him.

The smile turned into a grimace as he shuddered in agony.

In a heartbeat his Little Crow had flown to his side, harbinger gone replaced with a steady hand and eye. This too was new. No fear but surety. Someone who had seen wounds before.

“Can you move?”

This was not as a bad a wound as it could have been, the leather had protected him from the sword biting deeper into his flesh.

He nodded.

“Good, I will help you.”

He started to refuse instinctively as they pulled his good arm over their small shoulders, he was too big, too heavy he would—

And he was up, his little crow taking more than their fair share of him but it felt easier to walk.

“Little Crow?” he had to ask, the confusion plain in his voice.

“I am a healer of my people. Stronger than I look. Come, you need tending.”

Without another word they slowly led him back into his own hut, body pressed tightly against his. They were right, now they were up and close to him they were strong, he could feel the muscles taught against his side.

His Little Crow was not to be underestimated.

**

His wound was bad but not terrible, his side bled and obviously caused him pain but by their hand and skill he would not die.

This they could mend, this they could manage. The strength given to them by the ring of healing was enough to have them gather the materials they needed.

He sat down heavily on the bed.

“I will be well Little Crow, it is just a scratch.”

“You are wounded, you bleed, wounds can turn bad, flesh turn foul, let me heal you as you did me.”

“That will not—”

They were already gently but firmly removing his armour.

All arguments died on his lips as clever fingers brushed his skin, easing away his protective layers.

It took the work of heartbeats to strip him carefully to the waist.

As he recovered from the movement they poured mead into a shallow bowl, using a snatched rag they dipped it in,

“This will hurt, I’m sorry.”

He nodded, “I have had worse Little Crow.”

Glancing over him they’d believe it, white scars criss-crossed the skin they could see as though he’d been touched by the storm’s light itself.

They gave him a soft look of understanding, before beginning to clean away the oozing blood.

He only winced at the first pass.

His gods did protect him. The wound should have been much deeper, it had bitten hard into muscle but no further, his insides would remain where they should. Good.

“Your supplies, you have honey mead but herbs?”

“Herbs? Which ones?”

“Rosemary, Thyme, Comfrey, Valerian—”

He looked confused at the unfamiliar names.

“Just tell me where to look, I’ll know what I need.”

He pointed to the beams where dried bunches hung.

All they could find were Rosemary and Thyme, most likely for flavour than for their healing properties but it would have to do. They tried to ignore the pang in their chest, their stores would have made this the work of moments, they couldn’t even stitch him as it was. Pushing aside the upset they fetched the iron cooking pot from where they’d spied it, filling it with water and setting it to heat on the fire.

Another quick search yielded another prize.

“Little Crow? He asked, puzzled at what they held.

“It will help, stops wounds from getting bad.”

They didn’t like the paleness of his face, he was strong, they knew that but still. It would assist with the healing.

“Here,” they knelt beside him, gently taking his arm and resting it on their shoulder, “I need to see, this will help” they ignored the feel of his hand clutching at their shoulder when they began to carefully daub his side in honey. His hand covered their whole shoulder, he gripped it seeming to remember at the last moment his strength and squeezed softly instead.

“I am nearly done, your courage honours you.” They found themself patting his hand, it was true, he made almost no sound of pain, just watched them with those eyes of his, eyes that could certainly see and took in all that they viewed. He was still a little dazed, his strength understandably sapping but there was a gratitude that coloured his gaze.

Once he was covered they checked the wound again. The slice was clean and the blood was slowing. Good. All they needed to do was finish the poultice and bind it to him. Then his gods could take over.

Once the water was warmed they soaked the herbs then mashed them smearing the paste between pieces of linen that looked like they might have been salvaged from old tunics but they were clean and that was the main thing.

“I need to bind this to your side.” They explained, “Then you can rest.”

He started to shake his head, “I must keep watch.”

“Not tonight. You sleep. Your ring gave me strength, I will return it to you.”

“Little Crow—”

“Crows are clever, they see their way to solving trials. This crow has clever hands and a sharp beak. I shall keep watch.”

They spoke curtly but with an underlying softness. He had cared for them. Now they would return the favour.

“But I must, you are wounded too and there may be more Englanders.”

“Do you doubt the healing wisdom of the Picts?” Their dark eyes flashed in a way that to answer would court danger. He may be a warrior, a berserker but he also knew when to pick his battles. The men outside were too heavily armed to be a scouting party, they were likely the remainders of the forces responsible for the carnage of the village. There would be time, the few hours till dawn at least that would remain quiet. 

“I do not.”

“Good. Then rest.”

“Little Crow—”

“The bodies, you have somewhere you know they could be hidden?”

“That is not for you to –”

“I want to cover them, the snow is still falling heavily, this will be a long winter. We were readying for Yule.” They paused, tears suddenly springing to their eyes. He caught their hand, squeezing it gently.

They forced themself to swallow, there would be time later. Time to mourn and grieve and weep.

They squeezed back, just as gently. Holding his hand whilst they continued to speak.

“I can help the snow cover them for now, make sure they are laying flat, remove their helms and swords at least.”

He didn’t like the idea of them going back out into the night without him but he couldn’t argue it wasn’t a good idea.

“I shall help.”

“No, you shall let me bind you.”

“Little Crow you cannot go out alone.”

“I am not alone,” they showed him the doll he’d made them, tucked into the top of their woollen kirtle to leave their hands free, “you shall be with me there and I shall be swift.”

“I will not rest until you are returned.”

“Alright. Let me bind your side then I shall retrieve their steel.” They paused, thinking, “We could find a smith, earn their weight in silver and take weapons from the Englanders, hand and iron.”

“A good thought Little Crow, a good thought indeed.” 

They smiled at him, pleased he’d agreed, normally it took more brow-beating of those in their village to listen to them about some things.

They knelt again by his side, arm once again on their shoulder as they tenderly bound his side, poultice sitting snug to the wound it would hopefully help with both the pain and swelling at least. They had no valerian to ease his sleep so this would have to do.

“There, that should help till morning then I shall make more.”

“You are very kind Little Crow.”

“Then that makes two of us. Will you stay there, seated, till I return?”

“For as long as I can bear the silence.”

“Good enough.”

Carefully they waited by the door, axe in hand, listening for any sound that might hearald danger.

All quiet.

With a speed and stealth they felt came more from the ring than themself, they collected the helms and sword, quickly carrying them back inside then returning to cover the bodies in their cloaks, already their forms were disappearing under the heavy snow.

When they did deal with them properly they would keep the clothes and cloaks, their village was put to flame so with it everything but what they wore. They would make anew. They would take from them as they’d taken from them. Blood washed out after all.

They decided not to think about how quickly they had come to the notion of staying with the Viking. They had nowhere else to go after all other that the unforgiving night but still, if they were honest with themself, they would have intended to stay even if it was midsummer. He was kind, he cared, and truly, they felt safe with him.

Part of them felt foolish, like a child of fourteen being offered their first flower instead of the person of twenty they were but they were practical enough to accept a genuine offer of help when all their world burned. It helped they believed his words, they only had the look in his eye and the manner of his hand with them but they hoped to their own gods it was enough. They were tired, and they were lost, and they were empty.

The warmth of fire called them back.

**

Blackeye watched his Little Crow flit from inside to out and back returning with a pile of Englanders weapons, true to Their word they was as swift as the name he’d given Their.

Was that when he began thinking of them as his? He realised with a start it was the moment he saw them in snow surrounded by those soldiers. The name had flowed as easily as his own. Then, that had been fuelled by the need to protect, they as looked like a cornered fledging, half drowned, half frozen, filled with terror and fury at such a fate befalling them.

They were the fire he sang of, more than even he could have guessed.

They had turned the tables on him, the rescued was returning the kindness as willingly as breathing and he could not have been more joyful.

Apart from being forced to sit and watch and wait.

He wanted to be by their side in case of danger but reluctantly he realised they were right. He did hurt and he knew enough about wounds to not anger them unnecessarily. That way led to misery.

Still, it was good to see the strength in their movements, the gift of the ring, bestowed by his grandmother. They’d told him, long ago before his first voyage that a seventh son of a seventh son had power, that he had duty to uphold honour and the ways of their people, that he would be a protector, a guardian. But that he would not walk alone.

They had given him the ring with the words of a promise. The one who wear it would be dear to him, would draw whatever strength they needed from it and would be as the completion of a rune.

Blackeye had had no doubt when his Little Crow awoke they would be the bearer of the ring, an ancient gift. Partly he had wanted them healed because he couldn’t bear to see them in pain but there was something else, something deeper in those eyes of theirs. He was called Blackeye because of his lack of sight, a disappointment to his line. But his grandmother had faith in him even when the runes were quiet to his calling. His grandfather had told him gifts come in many ways and a life did not follow a single path. He had turned his hands to Warcraft, to strength of arm and mind to be a protector though he always felt he was lost, that there was something missing in his days.

Then those eyes met his.

Frightened, Furious, Black as his namesake.

He had found them.

It hurt his heart to think that they might view him as a threat but the world was unkind and it was wise to be cautious, especially when one was so small.

They barely reached his shoulder.

But now not only did they seem to accept his intentions as honourable they were tending to him as he did to them, their hands were gentle and clever. This was a person who had seen wounds, they faced his injury with a steady, experienced eye. That was unexpected but very welcome.

He did not like feeling vulnerable. A wound like that was manageable on his own but he was very glad he did not have to. He would heal much faster he was sure under their ministrations.

What he had truly not expected was for them to defend him in the first place with such ferocity. Not only had they blocked the strike, they’d had the foresight to seize his whittling knife and use it against the stunned Englander.

He wondered if it was their first kill.

If so, he’d need to be prepared, they seemed kind. Healers saw death frequently but they rarely caused it. This may hit them hard in the days to come. Then again, their village was burned, it was on the air for miles. They were strong but there was grief there, lurking in those eyes of theirs.

He knew that pain, had borne it for years. The first outpouring was the worst, a raging fire that could consume everything in its path if left unchecked. That scourging heat was coming and he would be the rock it could not burn through and he would remain steadfast for them. They would have him by their side, he would not let them face it alone.

They returned to his side almost as quickly as he’d have hoped, all weapons and helmets placed carefully against the wall and covered in firewood.

They were a clever little thing for certain.

He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face when they turned to look at him, bathed in the light of the fire their pale skin glowed, the depths of their eyes glinting like treasure. He couldn’t help but be mesmerised.

“You need to rest, you’ve been hurt.”

“You should rest as well, you have had a dark time.”

“I have, but the ring you gave me has returned my strength for now. Come on.”

He couldn’t help but be amused, being ordered about by such a small creature. But it made his heart soar, he felt a warmth glow in his chest that had nothing to do with the hearth.

He still felt as though he should be on guard, there had been so much death and though more danger now was unlikely it still troubled him.

They noticed, that stare was back, the one that glittered like raked coals. He expected a scolding like the healers of his home, they had the same fierceness but what passed their lips was not what he envisioned.

“A brave man fights the monster, a braver man is kind, a good man helps those in need and a strong man asks for aid.”

He felt the breath catch in his throat, turning his words to reflect back at him, to bind his hand but gently and full of meaning. They thought him brave, they thought him kind and good and strong.

A sob bubbled up in his chest but stayed with his breath.

They understood him and they valued him with the same scales.

Truly they were a creature of rarity.

He nodded in acquiescence, not trusting himself to anything other than, “All right Little Crow, if it would ease you.”

And truth be told he hurt and he knew his strength was waning. The rescue of his Little Crow, the march through the blizzard carrying their prone form and skirmish outside his home had taken its toll, he was a strong man, a good warrior but six men on his axe and a sword to the side was enough to give any warrior cause to pause. It wasn’t like he had any mushrooms left to chase away pain or fear. And anyway, there was nothing to berserk against save his Little Crow and he’d never want to risk putting them in danger, especially from himself. No. He’d bear the pain and rest as was bidden. There were unlikely to be more soldiers until the morning and the snow and his Little Crow’s cunning would hide any immediate signs of violence.

He could rest. And rest well with the knowledge that they saw him as worth tending to.

He eased himself down and found helping hands to aid him, it was not strictly necessary but he was grateful all the same, he hadn’t been touched so gently in so long it made his heart soar.

He stiffly reached for one of his blankets but his nurse beat him to it, drawing the cover up and over him, stilling him with a palm to his chest.

“Lay still, I have you, sleep.”

All he wanted to was lie there with them by his side and lose himself in that fierce, tender gaze. They were looking at him as though he were something special, something to be cared for and protected. It moved him more than he could say. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to earn this trust, this new-found value but he was not going to question it. He found himself glad that he’d at least managed to convince them of his intentions and thrilled that they’d decided he was to be treated in-kind. Even if it felt strange to be tended to.

What he had not expected was for them sing.

It was a lilting song, soft and tidal in the way it ebbed and flowed, a song for him. In the tongue of their people. That they would gift him with such a prize?! Their voice matched them, beautiful and dark, clear as the night sky and filled with mystery of an ember.

He fought with all his might to listen, to stay awake to hear more of the mellifluous sound but like the waves of their voice sleep washed over him and dragged him into the depths.

His last thought was one of fire and water dancing harmoniously under a starlit sky.

**

They had made him lie down without too much fuss, he was surprisingly biddable, though it was probably due to his pain. He couldn’t hide the wincing as he moved. Their hands were on him before they thought about it, easing him down gently to lay onto the furs that lined his bed.

That look of wonder was back. It stilled them where they stood.

Instead of busying themself with other tasks they’d decided upon they found themself sitting by his side, wanting to ease him into sleep, they knew the pain he must be in but he’d not made a sound of discomfort.

The song slipped past their heart and past their lips without a second thought.

It was worth it for the look of dawning realisation and adoration that swept his features.

They stayed and sang until he slid softly into sleep. It was a gift they gave willingly, wanting to comfort the man who had saved them twice and suffered for it. He was kind and he was good and he deserved all the care they could bestow.

Once he was truly asleep, face slackening and breaths deep they dared run their fingers through his hair, brush some loose strands away from his brow.

A brave man, a kind man, a good man and a strong man.

They sent a prayer to their gods in thanks for allowing their paths to cross when they needed such a one the most.

After a pause they sent a prayer to the gods he had mentioned as well, he was clearly under their protection and they had a right to be thanked. They would make a proper offering on the morrow.

Carefully they stood, surveying the hut properly trying to access what needed to be done.

They could not sleep, not yet, the gift of the ring had filled them with new strength and they could not stand the quiet, it allowed their own thoughts to crowd and scream.

They began to explore, to decide what needed tending and tidying.

“Arrange your herbs child, your stocks, the mind works better and your spirit is soothed when things are known and arranged in place. Clear your table as you would your mind and the thoughts will tidy themselves for you.”

The words of their grandmother coming back.

They was right.

They would tidy and arrange and settle.

It would ease them to know at least the set of where they found themself but was distracted before they could start in earnest.

He shivered in his sleep. 

They were by his side in a heartbeat.

They checked his brow, warm but not burning. Good. It was wound fever but only mild at present, they checked the poultice. It was still holding, the blood had all but stopped, the honey doing its job well. They drew the blanket up higher on him, pleased to see him settle a little under their touch.

Using another scrap of linen they soaked in one of filled water buckets, the icy water stinging their hands as they wrung it out but it drew out a contented sigh when they placed it gently on his forehead.

They paused considering his face, so much younger, more vulnerable in sleep. What had he said? 25 winters? That would fit, 5 years older than them, a man who had seen battle and suffered loss. They might be water and fire but they were both elemental, similar enough to know pain and grief. It was a comforting thought to be near someone who most likely truly understood their grief. 

But that was for later. 

Now they had work to do. 

They resumed their task with fresh purpose.

The fire needed banking and they was determined to ensure there was food for when he awoke, wound sickness drained the strength out of you, it was only right to make sure he could regain it with as much ease as possible. 

A swift hunt of his stores revealed a sack of barley another of oats and a small bag of milled flour. All in oiled bags and sealed away from hungry creatures. Good. He was as practical as he was kind. There were winter stores they could use, a few withered roots that might have been parsnips and several turnips. They wouldn’t take too much, enough to make a hearty stew that would last the days he needed. 

Taking down some of the drying elk they set to work. 

As the elk and barley broth began to simmer his shivering picked up in intensity.

He cried out, a short choking sound, filled with fear and misery.

_“So cold, so alone, father, grandfather, forgive me, I have failed you, the dark is everywhere, so cold.”_

They did not understand his words, in his fever the language of his home poured out of him from the deepest well.

But they knew the tone, knew that fear.

Placing a gentle hand on his brow, their own wrinkling with concern. He felt like a forge, letting out a small whimper as he pressed unconsciously into their hand.

“Whist ye, it’s alright, I have you, it’s just the fever my painted warrior, it will pass, whatever you see is not real, it’s can’t hurt you. I have you and my medicines are as powerful as your arms. Do not fear, you are mine and I will not let you go.”

They spoke openly, now unconcerned about using the simpler phrases, he’d tried so hard to speak their language and they knew none of his own to return the favour but for now, they could speak as they would. There would be time for teaching later.

They stroked his brow again, hoping to comfort his troubled sleep.

Not sweat though so his fever hadn’t broken.

They paused, considering. He was strong and his wound looked like it would heal well. But the fever needed to break.

They wrung out the scrap of linen they’d been using as a compress and re-soaked in the freezing water it before placing it back on his forehead. He gave a strangled sigh of relief.

The fire was already raging as much as they could coax it and still he trembled, his face creased in turmoil.

He’d been so kind. So gentle and so generous with his care.

How he needed them but expected nothing from them.

They found a small smile forming on their lips.

He might not have had any intention of making them his blanket but there was nothing to say they couldn’t make the decision themself. They knew the best way to help break a fever was warmth and there was no better warmth than shared warmth.

They trusted him and they wanted to help.

Taking the cauldron off the fire they built it as high as they could then stepped carefully over to his quaking form, he was just beginning to struggle and thrash so it was now or withdraw to the other side of the hut.

They slipped off their shoes, less worried now about having to plunge into the night with nothing more than the nightclothes they wore. Taking a breath before removing their woollen overlayer, the last thing they had of their Grandmother’s, they might be small but they had a head on the woman who raised them. They hadn’t wanted to waste the fabric, removing the sleeves so it could be worn as an extra layer on winter nights. For what they was intending it wouldn’t do to have both layers soaked.

Left only in their linen they gently pulled back the covered they’d layered over him and slid in next to him. It was like laying next to a yule log. With infinite care they pulled the covers up over the both of them and lifted up his arm to rest their head against his chest. They could try to lie to themself and say it was so they would know his heart still beat in his chest which was even true, at least in part.

But also, he made them feel safe enough to sleep. Whilst he was so much bigger than them they fit against him like the space was made for them. They’d never lain so close to man before, it was something they might allow themself to become used to.

The moment they settled against him his arm tightened around them and they melted into his side. He smelt of smoke and sweat, of blood and herbs all edged with a gasp of winter’s frost.

It was unfamiliar and it was home.

The world was an unforgiving place but maybe, if he was well in the morning then maybe there was hope yet.

Lulled by his regular breaths and the slowing of his shivers the exhaustion they’d been battling swept over them at last, their focus fading to embers ready to be awakened with the new day.

Peace, at least for a few hours, reigned in that little home.

**

The dawn came slowly to the hut, protected from sight in the little glen he’d built it in, now covered in the fresh snow that as thickly as blankets draped across the landscape.

Blackeye awoke as though picking his way through a great fog, he should be concerned, he should be ready for battle but he was warm and felt more contented than he had in years. The fog was one of drowsy comfort, indulgent and easy.

He wanted to stay wrapped in it, safe and protected like he’d once been long ago before the sea had drawn him away from the hearth of home.

But the day was calling and he had things to do.

With a sigh he made to move before pain lanced through his side, he gasped in surprise the memory of the attack yesterday flooding back to him. He looked around in sudden urgency, his Little Crow, they were with him last night, they was there as he began to drift, they, they sang to him, a song of their people. But where were they? Had they bewitched him with more than their spirit? Had the Saxon dogs taken them? Were they even real at all?

A murmur below his chin stopped his heart in his chest.

He cast a look below he was greeted with a cascade of midnight flowing out across his side.

His Little Crow was safe, they’d felt safe enough to join him. It was probably why he felt as well as he did, he remembered being cold, fearing that he’d failed in his duty enough to be condemned to the icy dark of Hel. He’d allowed misery to swamp him until the warmth began to grow and bloom and build and chase away the darkness, the fear and the cold.

His Little Crow, strong and sure and clever, a person who had saved him as much as he had saved them, may have found a place to roost of their own accord, deemed him worthy enough, for the time being at least.

It was a start, a start that filled him with hope.

Maybe in the coming days they would face the future together as the runes had told it.

He could not wait.

But for now, with the fire burning with no signs of dying, bathing the house with comely glow, the snow muffling all life outside he could rest a while longer, his Little Crow by his side, safe and warm and home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading! 
> 
> Like I said, this was very much inspired by this video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2XWqjlmhBE
> 
> The series does actually continue with two more videos with some new and excellent characters which I heartily recommend, I just couldn’t get the first story out of my head and had to write it all down and detail what I thought might happen! 
> 
> I am an absolute sucker for a good H/C story and this set up had it in spades! I wanted to write this as an extended hug since I could certainly do with one and I reckon a lot more people do too! I hope you enjoy both this and the video that inspired it!


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